The Nether World

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'You jumped as if I'd stuck a pin in you,' replied Clem. 'Did you
think it was a copper?'

Bob looked at her with a surly smile. Though no one could have
mistaken the class she belonged to, Clem was dressed in a way which
made her companionship with Bob in his workman's clothing somewhat
incongruous; she wore a heavily trimmed brown hat, a long velveteen
jacket, and carried a little bag of imitation fur.

'Why ain't you at work?' she added. 'Does Mrs. Pennyloaf Hewett know
how you spend your time?'

'Hasn't your husband taught you to mind your own business?'

Clem took the retort good-humouredly, and they walked on conversing.
Not altogether at his ease thus companioned, Bob turned out of the
main street, and presently they came within sight of the British
Museum.

'Ever been in that place?' Clem asked.

'Of course I have,' he replied, with his air of superiority.

'I haven't. Is there anything to pay? Let's go in for half an hour.'

It was an odd freak, but Bob began to have a pleasure in this
renewal of intimacy; he wished he had been wearing his best suit.
Years ago his father had brought him on a public holiday to the
Museum, and his interest was chiefly excited by the collection of
the Royal Seals. To that quarter he first led his companion, and
thence directed her towards objects more likely to supply her with
amusement; he talked freely, and was himself surprised at the show
of information his memory allowed him to make--desperately vague
and often ludicrously wide of the mark, but still a something of
knowledge, retained from all sorts of chance encounters by his
capable mind. Had the British Museum been open to visitors in the
hours of the evening, or on Sundays, Bob Hewitt would possibly have
been employing his leisure nowadays in more profitable pursuits.
Possibly; one cannot say more than that; for the world to which he
belonged is above all a world of frustration, and only the one man
in half a million has fate for his friend.

Much Clem cared for antiquities; when she had wearied herself in
pretending interest, a seat in an unvisited corner gave her an
opportunity for more congenial dialogue.

'How's Mrs. Pennyloaf?' she asked, with a smile of malice.

'How's Mr. What's-his-name Snowdon?' was the reply.

'My husband's a gentleman. Good thing for me I had the sense to
wait.'

'And for me too, I dare say.'

'Why ain't you at work? Got the sack?'

'I can take a day off if I like, can't I?'

'And you'll go 'ome and tell your wife as you've been working. I
know what you men are. What 'ud Mrs. Pennyloaf say if she knew you
was here with me? You daren't tell her; you daren't!'

'I'm not doing any harm as I know of. I shall tell her if I choose,
and if I choose I shan't. I don't ask _her_ what I'm to do.'

'I dare say. And how does that mother of hers get on? And her
brother at the public? Nice relations for Mr. Bob Hewett. Do they
come to tea on a Sunday?'

Bob glared at her, and Clem laughed, showing all her teeth. From
this exchange of pleasantries the talk passed to various subjects--
the affairs of Jack Bartley and his precious wife, changes in
Clerkenwell Close, then to Clem's own circumstances; she threw out
hints of brilliant things in store for her.

'Do you come here often?' she asked at length.

'Can't say I do.'

'Thought p'r'aps you brought Mrs. Pennyloaf. When'll you be here
again?'

'Don't know,' Bob replied, fidgeting and looking to a distance.

'I shouldn't wonder if I'm here this day next week,' said Clem,
after a pause. 'You can bring Pennyloaf if you like.'

It was dinner-time, and they left the building together. At the end
of Museum Street they exchanged a careless nod and went their
several ways.

CHAPTER XXV

A DOUBLE CONSECRATION

Bessie Byass and her husband had, as you may suppose, devoted many
an hour to intimate gossip on the affairs of their top-floor
lodgers. Having no relations with Clerkenwell Close, they did not
even hear the rumours which spread from Mrs. Peckover's house at the
time of Jane's departure thence; their curiosity, which only grew
keener as time went on, found no appeasement save in conjecture.
That Sidney Kirkwood was in the secret from the first they had no
doubt; Bessie made a sly attempt now and then to get a hint from
him, but without the least result. The appearance on the scene of
Jane's father revived their speculation, and just after the old
man's illness in the month of August occurred something which gave
them still fresh matter for argument. The rooms on the first floor
having become vacant, Michael proposed certain new arrangements. His
own chamber was too much that of an invalid to serve any longer as
sitting-room for Jane; he desired to take the front room below for
that purpose, to make the other on the same floor Jane's bed-room,
and then to share with the Byasses the expense of keeping a servant,
whose lodging would be in the chamber thus set free. Hitherto Bessie
and Jane and an occasional charwoman had done all the work of the
house; it was a day of jubilation for Mrs. Byass when she found
herself ruling over a capped and aproned maid. All these things set
it beyond doubt that Michael Snowdon had means greater than one
would have supposed from his way of living hitherto. Jane's removal
from work could, of course, be explained by her grandfather's
growing infirmities, but Bessie saw more than this in the new order
of things; she began to look upon the girl with a certain awe, as
one whose future might reveal marvels.

For Jane, as we know, the marvels had already begun. She came back
from Danbury not alto ether like herself; unsettled a little, as it
appeared; and Michael's illness, befalling so soon, brought her into
a nervous state such as she had not known for a long time. The
immediate effect of the disclosure made to her by Michael whilst he
was recovering was to overwhelm her with a sense of
responsibilities, to throw her mind into painful tumult. Slow of
thought, habituated to the simplest views of her own existence, very
ignorant of the world beyond the little circle in which her life had
been passed, she could not at once bring into the control of her
reflection this wondrous future to which her eyes had been opened.
The way in which she had been made acquainted with the facts was
unfortunate. Michael Snowdon, in spite of his deep affection for
her, and of the trust he had come to repose in her character, did
not understand Jane well enough to bring about this revelation with
the needful prudence. Between him, a man burdened with the sorrowful
memories of a long life, originally of stern temperament, and now,
in the feebleness of his age, possessed by an enthusiasm which in
several respects disturbed his judgment, which made him desperately
eager to secure his end now that he felt life slipping away from
him--between him and such a girl as Jane there was a wider gulf than
either of them could be aware of. Little as he desired it, he could
not help using a tone which seemed severe rather than tenderly
trustful. Absorbed in his great idea, conscious that it had
regulated every detail in his treatment of Jane since she came to
live with him, he forgot that the girl herself was by no means
adequately prepared to receive the solemn injunctions which he now
delivered to her. His language was as general as were the ideas of
beneficent activity which he desired to embody in Jane's future; but
instead of inspiring her with his own zeal, he afflicted her with
grievous spiritual trouble. For a time she could only feel that
something great and hard and high was suddenly required of her; the
old man's look seemed to keep repeating, 'Are you worthy?' The
tremor of bygone days came back upon her as she listened, the
anguish of timidity, the heart-sinking, with which she had been wont
to strain her attention when Mrs. Peckover or Clem imposed a harsh
task.

One thing alone had she grasped as soon as it was uttered; one word
of reassurance she could recall when she sat down in solitude to
collect her thoughts. Her grandfather had mentioned that Sidney
Kirkwood already knew this secret. To Sidney her whole being turned
in this hour of distress; he was the friend who would help her with
counsel and teach her to be strong. But hereupon there revived in
her a trouble which for the moment she had forgotten, and it became
so acute that she was driven to speak to Michael in a way which had
till now seemed impossible. When she entered his room--it was the
morning after their grave conversation--Michael welcomed her with
a face of joy, which, however, she still felt to be somewhat stern
and searching in its look. When they had talked for a few moments,
Jane said:

'I may speak about this to Mr. Kirkwood, grandfather?'

'I hope you will, Jane. Strangers needn't know of it yet, but we can
speak freely to him.'

After many endeavours to find words that would veil her thought, she
constrained herself to ask:

'Does he think I can be all you wish?'

Michael looked at her with a smile.

'Sidney has no less faith in you than I have, be sure of that.'

'I've been thinking--that perhaps he distrusted me a little.'

'Why, my child?'

'I don't quite know. But there's been a little difference in him, I
think, since we came back.'

Michael's countenance fell.

'Difference? How?'

But Jane could not go further. She wished she had not spoken. Her
face began to grow hot, and she moved away.

'It's only your fancy,' continued Michael. 'But may be that--You
think he isn't quite so easy in his talking to you as he was?'

'I've fancied it. But it was only--'

'Well, you may be partly right,' said her grandfather, softening his
voice. 'See, Jane, I'll tell you something. I think there's no harm;
perhaps I ought to. You must know that I hadn't meant to speak to
Sidney of these things just when I did. It came about, because _he_
had something to tell _me_, and something I was well pleased to
hear. It was about you, Jane, and in that way I got talking--
something about you, my child. Afterwards, I asked him whether he
wouldn't speak to you yourself, but he said no--not till you'd
heard all that was before you. I think I understood him, and I dare
say you will, if you think it over.'

Matter enough for thinking over, in these words. Did she understand
them aright? Before leaving the room she had not dared to look her
grandfather in the face, but she knew well that he was regarding her
still with the same smile. Did she understand him aright?

Try to read her mind. The world had all at once grown very large, a
distress to her imagination; worse still, she had herself become a
person of magnified importance, irrecognisable in her own sight,
moving, thinking so unnaturally. Jane, I assure you, had thought
very little of herself hitherto--in both senses of the phrase.
Joyous because she could not help it, full of gratitude, admiration,
generosity, she occupied her thoughts very much with other people,
but knew not self-seeking, knew not self-esteem. The one thing
affecting herself over which she mused frequently was her suffering
as a little thrall in Clerkenwell Close, and the result was to make
her very humble. She had been an ill-used, ragged, work-worn child,
and something of that degradation seemed, in her feeling, still to
cling to her. Could she have known Bob Hewett's view of her
position, she would have felt its injustice, but at the same time
would have bowed her head. And in this spirit had she looked up to
Sidney Kirkwood, regarding him as when she was a child, save for
that subtle modification which began on the day when she brought
news of Clara Hewett's disappearance. Perfect in kindness, Sidney
had never addressed a word to her which implied more than
friendship--never until that evening at the farm; then for the first
time had he struck a new note. His words seemed spoken with the express
purpose of altering his and her relations to each other. So much
Jane had felt, and his change since then was all the more painful to
her, all the more confusing. Now that of a sudden she had to regard
herself in an entirely new way, the dearest interest of her life
necessarily entered upon another phase. Struggling to understand how
her grandfather could think her worthy of such high trust, she
inevitably searched her mind for testimony as to the account in
which Sidney held her. A fearful hope had already flushed her cheeks
before Michael spoke the words which surely could have but one
meaning.

On one point Sidney had left her no doubts; that his love for Clara
Hewett was a thing of the past he had told her distinctly. And why
did he wish her to be assured of that? Oh, had her grandfather been
mistaken in those words he reported? Durst she put faith in them,
coming thus to her by another's voice?

Doubts and dreads and self-reproofs might still visit her from hour
to hour, but the instinct of joy would not allow her to refuse
admission to this supreme hope. As if in spite of herself, the
former gladness--nay, a gladness multiplied beyond conception--
reigned once more in her heart. Her grandfather would not speak
lightly in such a matter as this; the meaning of his words was
confessed, to all eternity immutable. Had it, then, come to this?
The friend to whom she looked up with such reverence, with voiceless
gratitude, when he condescended to speak kindly to _her_, the
Peckovers' miserable little servant--he, after all these changes
and chances of life, sought her now that she was a woman, and had it
on his lips to say that he loved her. Hitherto the impossible, the
silly thought to be laughed out of her head, the desire for which
she would have chid herself durst she have faced it seriously--was
it become a very truth? 'Keep a good heart, Jane; things'll be
better some day.' How many years since the rainy and windy night
when he threw his coat over her and spoke those words? Yet she could
hear them now, and the tears that rushed to her eyes as she blessed
him for his manly goodness were as much those of the desolate child
as of the full-hearted woman.

And the change that she had observed in him since that evening at
Danbury? A real change, but only of manner. He would not say to her
what he had meant to say until she knew the truth about her own
circumstances. In simple words, she being rich and he having only
what he earned by his daily work, Sidney did not think it right to
speak whilst she was still in ignorance. The delicacy of her
instincts, and the sympathies awakened by her affection, made this
perfectly clear to her, strange and difficult to grasp as the
situation was at first. When she understood, how her soul laughed
with exulting merriment! Consecration to a great idea, endowment
with the means of wide beneficence--this not only left her cold,
but weighed upon her, afflicted her beyond her strength. What was
it, in truth, that restored her to herself and made her heart beat
joyously? Knit your brows against her; shake your head and raze her
name from that catalogue of saints whereon you have inscribed it in
anticipation. Jane rejoiced simply because she loved a poor man, and
had riches that she could lay at his feet.

Great sums of money, vague and disturbing to her imagination when
she was bidden hold them in trust for unknown people, gleamed and
made music now that she could think of them as a gift of love. By
this way of thought she could escape from the confusion in which
Michael's solemn appeal had left her. Exalted by her great hope,
calmed by the assurance of aid that would never fail her, she began
to feel the beauty of the task to which she was summoned; the
appalling responsibility became a high privilege now that it was to
be shared with one in whose wisdom and strength she had measureless
confidence. She knew now what wealth meant; it was a great and
glorious power, a source of blessings incalculable. This power it
would be hers to bestow, and no man more worthy than he who should
receive it at her hands.

It was not without result that Jane had been so long a listener to
the conversations between Michael and Kirkwood. Defective as was her
instruction in the ordinary sense, those evenings spent in the
company of the two men had done much to refine her modes of thought.
In spite of the humble powers of her mind and her narrow experience,
she had learned to think on matters which are wholly strange to
girls of her station, to regard the life of the world and the
individual in a light of idealism and with a freedom from ignoble
association rare enough in any class. Her forecast of the future to
be spent with Sidney was pathetic in its simplicity, but had the
stamp of nobleness. Thinking of the past years, she made clear to
herself all the significance of her training. In her general view of
things, wealth was naturally allied with education, but she
understood why Michael had had her taught so little. A wealthy woman
is called a lady; yes, but that was exactly what she was not to
become. On that account she had gone to work, when in reality there
was no need for her to do so. Never must she remove herself from the
poor and the laborious, her kin, her care; never must she forget
those bitter sufferings of her childhood, precious as enabling her
to comprehend the misery of others for whom had come no rescue. She
saw, moreover, what was meant by Michael's religious teaching, why
he chose for her study such parts of the Bible as taught the beauty
of compassion, of service rendered to those whom the world casts
forth and leaves to perish. All this grew upon her, when once the
gladness of her heart was revived. It was of the essence of her
being to exercise all human and self-forgetful virtues, and the
consecration to a life of beneficence moved her profoundly now that
it followed upon consecration to the warmer love.

When Sidney paid his next visit Jane was alone in the new
sitting-room; her grandfather said he did not feel well enough to
come down this evening. It was the first time that Kirkwood had seen
the new room. After making his inquiries about Michael he surveyed
the arrangements, which were as simple as they could be, and spoke a
few words regarding the comfort Jane would find in them. He had his
hand on a chair, but did not sit down, nor lay aside his hat. Jane
suffered from a constraint which she had never before felt in his
presence.

'You know what grandfather has been telling me?' she said at length,
regarding him with grave eyes.

'Yes. He told me of his intention.'

'I asked him if I might speak to you about it. It was bard to
understand at first.'

'It would be, I've no doubt.'

Jane moved a little, took up some sewing, and seated herself. Sidney
let his hat drop on to the chair, but remained standing, his arms
resting on the back,

It's a very short time since I myself knew of it,' he continued.
'Till then, I as little imagined as you did that--' He paused,
then resumed more quickly, 'But it explains many things which I had
always understood in a simpler way.'

'I feel, too, that I know grandfather much better than I did,' Jane
said. 'He's always been thinking about the time when I should be old
enough to hear what plans he'd made for me. I do so hope he really
trusts me, Mr. Kirkwood! I don't know whether I speak about it as he
wishes. It isn't easy to say all I think, but I mean to do my best
to be what he--'

'He knows that very well. Don't be anxious; he feels that all his
hopes have been realised in you.'

There was silence. Jane made a pretence of using her needle, and
Sidney watched her hands.

'He spoke to you of a lady called Mrs. Lant?' were his next words.

'Yes. He just mentioned her.'

'Are you going to see her soon?'

'I don't know. Have _you_ seen her?'

'No. But I believe she's a woman you could soon he friendly with. I
hope your grandfather will ask her to come here before long.'

'I'm rather afraid of strangers.'

'No doubt,' said the other, smiling. 'But you'll get over that. I
shall do my best to persuade Mr. Snowdon to make you acquainted with
her.'

Jane drew in her breath uneasily.

'She won't want me to know other people, I hope?'

'Oh, if she does, they'll be kind and nice and easy to talk to.'

Jane raised her eyes and said half-laughingly:

'I feel as if I was very childish, and that makes me feel it still
more. Of course, if it's necessary, I'll do my best to talk to
strangers. But they won't expect too much of me, at first? I mean,
if they find me a little slow, they won't be impatient?'

'You mustn't think that hard things are going to be asked of you.
You'll never be required to say or do anything that you haven't
already said and done many a time, quite naturally. Why, it's some
time since you began the kind of work of which your grandfather has
been speaking.'

'I have begun it? How?'

'Who has been such a good friend to Pennyloaf, and helped her as
nobody else could have done?'

'Oh, but that's nothing!'

Sidney was on the point of replying! but suddenly altered his
intention. He raised himself from the leaning attitude, and took his
hat.

'Well, we'll talk about it another time,' he said carelessly. 'I
can't stop long to-night, so I'll go up and see your grandfather.'

Jane rose silently.

'I'll just look in and say good-night before I go,' Sidney added, as
he left the room.

He did so, twenty minutes after. When he opened the door Jane was
sewing busily, but it was only on hearing his footsteps that she had
so applied herself. He gave a friendly nod, and departed.

Still the same change in his manner. A little while ago he would
have chatted freely and forgotten the time.

Another week, and Jane made the acquaintance of the lady whose name
we have once or twice heard, Miss Lant, the friend of old Mr.
Percival. Of middle age and with very plain features, Miss Lant had
devoted herself to philanthropic work; she had an income of a few
hundred pounds, and lived almost as simply as the Snowdons in order
to save money for charitable expenditure. Unfortunately the earlier
years of her life had been joyless, and in the energy which she
brought to this self-denying enterprise there was just a touch of
excess, common enough in those who have been defrauded of their
natural satisfactions and find a resource in altruism. She was no
pietist, but there is nowadays coming into existence a class of
persons who substitute for the old religious acerbity a narrow and
oppressive zeal for good works of purely human sanction, and to this
order Miss Lant might be said to belong. However, nothing but what
was agreeable manifested itself in her intercourse with Michael and
Jane; the former found her ardent spirit very congenial, and the
latter was soon at ease in her company.

It was a keen distress to Jane when she heard from Pennyloaf that
Bob would allow no future meetings between them. In vain she sought
an explanation; Pennyloaf professed to know nothing of her husband's
motives, but implored her friend to keep away for a time, as any
disregard of Bob's injunction would only result in worse. troubles
than she yet had to endure. Jane sought the aid of Kirkwood, begging
him to interfere with young Hewett; the attempt was made, but proved
fruitless. '_Sic volo, sic jubeo_,' was Bob's standpoint, and he as
good as bade Sidney mind his own affairs.

Jane suffered, and more than she herself would have anticipated. She
had conceived a liking, almost an affection, for poor, shiftless
Pennyloaf, strengthened, of course, by the devotion with which the
latter repaid her. But something more than this injury to her
feelings was involved in her distress on being excluded from those
sorry lodgings. Pennyloaf was comparatively an old friend; she
represented the past, its contented work, its familiar associations,
its abundant happiness. And now, though Jane did not acknowledge to
herself that she regretted the old state of things, still less that
she feared the future, it was undeniable that the past seemed very
bright in her memory, and that something weighed upon her heart,
forbidding such gladsomeness as she had known.

CHAPTER XXVI

SIDNEY'S STRUGGLE

In the dreary days when autumn is being choked by the first fogs,
Sidney Kirkwood had to bestir himself and to find new lodgings. The
cheerless task came upon him just when he had already more than
sufficient trouble, and to tear himself out of the abode in which he
had spent eight years caused him more than regret; he felt
superstitiously about it, and questioned fate as to what sorrows
might be lurking for him behind this corner in life's journey. Move
he must; his landlady was dead, and the house would perhaps be
vacant for a long time. After making search about Islington one
rainy evening, he found himself at the end of Hanover Street, and
was drawn to the familiar house; not, however, to visit the
Snowdons, but to redeem a promise recently made to Bessie Byass, who
declared herself vastly indignant at the neglect with which he
treated her. So, instead of going up the steps to the front door, he
descended into the area. Bessie herself opened to him, and after a
shrewd glance, made as though she would close the door again.
'Nothing for you! The idea of beggars coming down the area-steps Be
off!'

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